My dad bought me a magazine yesterday called Dangerous Ink, it was conceived back in 2007 by two Glaswegians and shows a lot of promise. Unlike the conventional art magazines it doesn't bombard you with unnecessary ramblings and 'modern' art. Which is nice.
It contained an interview with Laurie Lipton, an artist i was already aware of but who's style never really interested me. However, as often, i changed my mind. I still don't enjoy the countless number of skulls and twisted settings but i understand them better now. Also her technique is unquestionable. I hadn't realised before but she uses tiny brush-like strokes of her pencil to create her images, a result of wanting to learn to paint like the old masters but never having anyone to teach her, even with attending art school. Her experience of art school sounds much like mine. The classic black sheep in a heard of paint-splattered modernites.
Anyhow, i was looking through her gallery and it was the compositions of her work that interested me the most. Like the work i've got my mind set on doing now, they all have a filmic quality to them. Her figures don't necessarily confront head on, they take a more subtle approach by slowly pulling you in.

I finished reading this last night. Perhaps the most trying book i have ever read. It's beautiful and thoughtful and hopeful in its hopelessness but not easy. In the beginning it's quite like reading an enormous train of thought that never pauses for breath. But it doesn't dwindle or lack sense.
I found myself reading passages three times over to fully comprehend what was going on, so it took me over a week to read 250 pages.
It was worth the slog though. Stories of redemption can be so easily clichéd but this was anything but.
Now i'm reading trash, to give my brain a rest =]

"There are a good many people of the same kind as Harry. Particularly many artists are of his kind. These persons all have two souls, two beings within them. There is God and the devil in them; the mother's blood and the father's; the capacity for happiness and the capacity for suffering; and in just such a state of enmity and entanglement were the wolf and man in Harry. And these men, for whom life has no repose, live at times in their rare moments of happiness with such strength and indescribable beauty, the spray of their moment's happiness is flung so high and dazzlingly over the wide sea of suffering, that the light of it, spreading its radiance, touches others too with its enchantment. Thus, like a precious, fleeting foam over the sea of suffering arise all those works of art, in which a single individual lifts himself for an hour so high above his personal destiny that his happiness shines like a star and appears to all who see it as something eternal and as their own dream of happiness. All these men, whatever their deeds and works may be, have really no life; that is to say, their lives are non-existent and have no form. They are not heroes, artists or thinkers in the same way that other men are judges, doctors, shoemakers, or schoolmasters. Their life consists of a perpetual tide, unhappy and torn with pain, terrible and meaningless, unless one is ready to see its meaning in just those rare experiences, acts, thoughts and works that shine out above the chaos of such a life. To such men the desperate and horrible thought has come that perhaps the whole of human life is but a bad joke, a violent and ill-fated abortion of the primal mother, a savage and dismal catastrophe of nature. To them, too, however, the other thought has come that man is perhaps not merely a half-rational animal but a child of the gods and destined to immortality."

"The wolf, too, suffers. No, back to nature is a false track that leads nowhere but to suffering and despair. Harry can never turn back again and become wholly wolf, and could he do so he would find that even the wolf is not of primeval simplicity, but already a creature of manifold complexity. Even the wolf has two, and more than two, souls in his wolf's breast, and he who desires to be a wolf falls into the same forgetfulness as the man who sings: 'If I could be a child once more!' He who sentimentally sings of blessed childhood is thinking of the return to nature and innocence and the origin of things, and has quite forgotten that these blessed children are beset with conflict and complexities and capable of all suffering.
There is in fact, no way back either to the wolf or to the child. From the very start there is no innocence and no singleness. Every created thing, even the simplest, is already guilty, already multiple. It has been thrown into the muddy stream of being and may never more swim back again to its source. The way to innocence, to the uncreated and to God leads on, not back, not back to the wolf, or to the child, but ever further into sin, ever deeper into human life."

"I saw, though indistinctly and cloudily, the reflection of an uneasy, self-tormented, inwardly labouring and seething being - myself, Harry Haller. And within him again I saw the Steppenwolf, a shy, beautiful, dazed wolf with frightened eyes that smouldered now with anger, now with sadness. This shape of a wolf coursed through the other in ceaseless movement, as a tributary pours its cloudy turmoil into a river. In bitter strife, in unfulfilled longing each tried to devour the other so that his shape might prevail. How unutterably sad was the look this fluid inchoate figure of the wolf threw from his beautiful shy eyes."

For a long time now i have been following Robin Cracknell's work. I first discovered him on DeviantArt and felt a very strong pang of envy for the images he creates and the purposeful but surprising - even to himself - damage he does to them.
The process in which he creates his work can be read in depth here.
After receiving the feedback from my final assessment, i was informed that my work had a filmic quality to it, as if i had grabbed my characters from moments within a movie and forced them down onto the page. In essence, a drawn film still. I liked being told that very much. I took it as an opportunity to look back at Cracknell's work and take note of the way he presents you with everyday, rather run of the mill moments from childhood and makes them cryptic and unexpected.
Something i wish to do within my own work. I think film will be a larger influence within my work throughout the Summer, or at least for the time being. I like the idea of everyday scenes that can be changed with the simple addition of something that does not belong. Just as you would see in a film.

Hmm, so i just downloaded the free version of Spotify and have to say i'm pretty impressed so far, especially with making your own playlists. I'm just waiting for the adverts to descend. Hmm.
It feels like i'm betraying last.fm and especially my loyalty to cds.